


Rumors & GoPros

by Pipsqueak (Skyhonni)



Series: Not Much (But They’re Trying) [3]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Choking, Coming At The Same Time, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Dry Humping, F/M, Frottage, Humor, Magic, Mentions of Hopper - Freeform, Praise Kink, RIP, Rumors, Sort of? - Freeform, abuse of both school papers and laptops, intent, mentions of PDA, sans as a major choking kink I don't make the rules, sans can be read as a sub in this scene because he is honestly, the GoPro is dead, trust me that should be a warning she is chaotic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:29:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26499424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyhonni/pseuds/Pipsqueak
Summary: You and Sans try and see what the damage is after a night of drunken handsiness in public so you can win a game of bingo.It seems that you get a little sidetracked instead.•°•°•°•You sigh dramatically and smack the GoPro. “Sans, I don’t know how to tell you this without breaking your heart—or soul,” you add hastily as he opens his mouth to interject, “but I’m classier than that even when I’m drunk.”He snorts, and you gesture at nothing in particular with the camera as you continue, “A midnight romp in the alley behind Denny’s, however? Now that’s believable.”
Relationships: Reader & Hopper, Sans (Undertale)/Reader
Series: Not Much (But They’re Trying) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1923259
Comments: 11
Kudos: 138





	Rumors & GoPros

**Author's Note:**

> Hey. So. This is literally the first time I’ve ever written anything explicitly sexy that isn’t just a little snippet. So. Yeah.
> 
> Also this is extremely self indulgent. And in my mind, Sans has a choking kink the size of Mount Everest, for some reason.

YOU

×××

You have a bit of an issue on your hands. It comes in the form of a bright magneta bunny monster who has the personality of a overprotective and super supportive older sister with the fashion sense of a gay hippy from the 70’s.

She’s the type of bitch that’ll punch a guy in the dick on the dance floor for even having the audacity to look at her bare ankle and then stumble into the bathroom only to spend an hour in there drunkenly complimenting every single girl she meets, like some inspirational lesbian doorgreeter.

She once offered you a thousand gold pieces if you could burp louder than her during a twenty-four hour livestream. (You lost. That’s what happens when your opponent can rattle windows.)

She buys jars of pickles specifically for the juice to drink and throws out the rest, like a heathen.

This girl unironically thinks assless-chap style bell-bottom jeans are the fucking future for gaming attire.

All that to say, Hopper is, and probably always will be, your best friend. She’s intense and nosey and loud, has absolutely no standards besides ‘can she breathe’ when it comes to dating woman, and is known to show up at your apartment in the wee hours of the morning high as a kite to scale your fire escape and beg for leftovers through your porch door like a gremlin.

You wouldn’t trade her for a trillion bucks. Even if they threw in a bonus hot pocket. Yes, folks, that’s how serious you are.

But you _would_ totally fucking lie to her face to withhold a singular bingo space.

And you are actively going to do that. It is happening. Like hell are you letting her win Stupid Bullshit Bingo.

You’ve run into a few bumps in the Spin-the-Narrative department. Nothing to flatten your tires or burn your sails, but enough to make you sit back and re-evaluate the whole situation from every angle. At first, Sans is confident that Hopper didn’t notice anything, based on the interaction he had with her during your poker game. But then he opens the Undernet just to check and gets blasted with about a million DMs and @’s. It gets to the point that he mutes his whole computer.

Apparently, Sans has been completely off the dating market for a while now, and has kind of made it a point to do the opposite of mess around during college. He’s a pretty popular guy in the world of monsters, which is why he’s tried his hardest to remain rather down-low in human media. He already gets recognized left and right by his own people. He’d rather like to go to the grocery store without getting dogpiled in the cereal aisle any more than he already does.

His dry spell has, according to him, been about the same length as a presidential term.

“you can, uh, imagine, then, if you will,” he said after explaining his hiatus from anything wet and slick that isn’t a lonely shower in the pursuit of knowledge, humor in his voice, “that our display last night is being distributed around the city like gossip-candy.”

Then he shows you the highlights of the messages he’s gotten so far. They’re pretty hilarious. You’d say about thirty percent of them hold actual ground, while the rest might be considered slander in a court proceeding. You very quickly realize that things are going to be a lot harder to pull off than you originally thought. And that’s _with_ Sans’s enthusiastic help. (He is all for fucking with people, which is great.)

Just because Hopper can’t tell the difference between Fireball or Vodka doesn’t mean she’s an idiot. It just means she’s fried her taste buds enough to become useless in taste-testing videos. Hopper has both a photographic memory and a tendency for gossip, so you’re going against someone with a clear upper hand.

It’s fine. You can totally pull something out of your ass within the next four hours. 

Totally.

×

“well,” Sans says, sounding both amused and a smidge infuriated, staring down at his laptop, “this might be _a little_ incriminating.”

“Is it worse than the post claiming they saw us making out on top of the dumpster behind Arby’s?” you wonder aloud from where you’re starfished out on his bed, fiddling with one of his gnawed-on GoPros. He told you that by all accounts, the fucking thing should still work, but it refuses to turn on. You’d taken to slapping it like an old Walkman in hopes that it might suddenly turn on. “Because that’s a pretty high bar of incriminating, and it’s not even true.”

“ _allegedly_ ,” Sans insists. “we still have an hour unaccounted for.”

You sigh dramatically and smack the GoPro. “Sans, I don’t know how to tell you this without breaking your heart—or soul,” you add hastily as he opens his mouth to interject, “but I’m classier than that even when I’m drunk.”

He snorts, and you gesture at nothing in particular with the camera as you continue, “A midnight romp in the alley behind Denny’s, however? Now _that’s_ believable.”

His laugh makes you smile, all wheezy and a little goofy from how high pitched it is compared to his usual baritone—but what he says next wipes that clean off your face. “maybe i told you it was an olive garden.”

You sit up abruptly, slamming the camera down into the mattress for added flare, and point your finger accusingly at him. “You’d just _lie_ to me like that?”

His grin gets wider and his eyes flick down to your mouth split-second fast, but he averts his gaze back down to his computer screen. “nah. i don’t think i could.” he says it jokingly, but something gentle is hidden underneath.

You see a weak spot with that look and tone. You’re not a saint, never will be, and you’re both a metaphorical and literal bastard, so you decide to poke it as hard as you can. For science.

...And to find out how flustered you can get him. Because he’s _real_ cute like that, you’ve learned.

You get up on your knees, just enough to knee-walk down the bed to where he sits, cross legged and distracted by whatever he found from scouring the Undernet.

You take the time that short journey down the mattress gives you to admire him shamelessly. His black tank top makes the bare bones of his arms stand out a lot more than his usual white t-shirt or long-sleeve button-down, and you’ve had a few good minutes logged in the past hour alone eyeing them like they’re a nice buttered corn on the cob you’d like to gnaw on. They’re thicker than real human bones, to the point where they almost mimic muscle and fat. And they make you feel a certain way. A hot and bothered certain kind of way.

You lean into his field of view. Startled, he glances up at you and freezes when he notices how close you are. You smile at him, watching his eyelights dilate, enough for you to notice. _Oh, god_ , you think, _he’s so easy to rile up._

Good thing you like easy. It’s always smoother to take an escalator than a flight of stupid fucking stairs.

You place your hands on both his kneecaps, over where the edge of his basketball shorts stop and his bare bone begins.

“um,” he says, voice a little higher, and you wait, but nothing else comes out of his mouth.

“Want to know something, Sans?” you ask him, flexing your fingertips lightly. His breathing starts to come faster as you shift just a smidge closer.

He waits, eyelights flicking down to your hands and up to your lips, but then he seems to figure out that you’re not going to tell him without prompting. He aims for causal and misses it by about a yard, the breathiness of his voice betraying him. “yeah, uh—” he chuckles, averting his eyes to the left, as if he’s laughing at himself. “hit me with it.”

“It’s probably something I shouldn’t even tell you,” you tease, letting your eyes travel down from his face to his neck, shoulders, stopping at his arms. 

Woof. Oh yeah, you’re sort of shooting yourself in the foot here. Big-time gains, though. Like getting to touch him again, but sober this time. More coherency means a deeper appreciation for every little nuance.

Like the way he lets out a tiny, soft little sound when you slip one of your hands between the fabric of his shorts and his bare leg. His eyes snap back to yours so quick and dilate rapid-fast that you wonder how it felt to him, how sensitive his bones really are.

A nice pale blue blooms across his face, and his breathing is getting shallower, but he doesn’t move away. His smile starts to edge away from humor and begins to toe the line of anticipation.

_So_ responsive. God, you like that.

Last night was rough, quick, dirty; he took control and pulled your hair. You liked it. You still like it. But if he thinks that’s all you have to offer, that’s all he can give you, you want to make it known that that’s not the case.

You’d like to ruin him too.

“If you wore that tanktop to the library, my thoughts might’ve gotten a little indecent,” you admit, letting your other hand not currently rubbing at his lower thigh to let go of his knee and trail up the side of his arm.

He lets out a shaky breath and a tiny moan that you can feel travel against your neck. _Oh,_ that’s nice. You’d meant to do this to make him all blue, get your point across, and then retreat, but the warmth under your hands and the way he’s looking at your face, all wonder and wide-eyed surprise, is definitely doing it for you.

You lean in closer, bracing your hand on his shoulder, pulling him in towards you just a little. He goes easy, following your lead, and you feel heat start to get molten up in your newly re-acquired underwear. Sudden inspiration strikes you from last night; you remember the look on his face when you ghosted your fingers against his vertebrae.

He’s sensitive there, maybe? Doesn’t hurt to find out...

You dip your head, and as you do he does something you don’t expect at all: he turns his own and bares his neck, lets out a whimper so quiet you almost don’t hear it when your breath fans over bone.

Oh, fuck. Fuck, that hits you right where it counts. You can feel yourself get slick just from the implications, the trust, the lust he just showed you. It’s harder to turn throat than to show your cards early in a game of poker.

The praise slips out from your lips before you can pull the reins, a little overwhelmed by the gesture.

“So good, baby, thank you.” you mean it. He’s definitely earned it. But you don’t know what he’s comfortable with, and the moment it’s out of your mouth you internally raise the alarm bells on yourself—

“fuck,” he breathes, voice cracking. He pushes his throat in closer to your mouth, like he can’t wait. “fuck, _please_.”

Oh, okay then. Nevermind.

Your hand brushes up his leg as you lean in closer to skim your lips against his vertebrae. The moment your mouth touches bone, it becomes seriously clear that Sans has a major weak spot there, as he full-on moans, a chest-deep sound loud enough to hear just fine, and attempts to pull you closer by his sudden grip on your hips, into his lap.

His touch against your bare skin is like a low voltage of electricity. You’d wondered about that feeling from your hazy memories of the night, but ultimately discarded it as being drunk. Now you’re sure it’s some sort of magic, and like hell are you complaining. You can tell that the longer you go on experiencing it the more you’ll want it to continue.

The laptop still balanced between his knees sort of hinders the game plan of getting closer, which is beyond frustrating for both of you because a seamless transition would’ve been a hell of a lot better than getting cockblocked by an inanimate object.

“nooo,” he whines, knowing both your fates.

You pull back, which he’s not happy about if the frustrated groan he gives immediately is any indication. You laugh lightly at his face when you see it, still tipped to the side; it’s all horny indignation. He straightens up before you can do or say anything, snaps the lid shut and flings it out of his lap with gravity magic. Seeing it explode the pile of papers there reminds you that there’s a reason he even had that thing with him in the first place.

“there,” he says, and makes grabby-hands for you but doesn’t push you when you only budge a little.

“Now wait a minute,” you say, regrettably, because you’d really like to grind down on something and his shorts are looking a little blue up in the grundle, “what were you looking at that was worse than Arby’s?”

“oh, right.” he looks sheepish, an expression you’re beginning to adore, glancing back at the fluttering papers landing on the floor. “uh, well, someone took a picture of you in my lap, during that card ga— _hhholy_ shit.”

You’d made good work of the time he took explaining by straddling his lap, steadying yourself with a mild grip on his shoulders. No rest for the wicked and all that. Truthfully, you’re probably more impatient than a kid waiting in line to get into Disney World. You’d bet that none of the rides there could make you cum, though.

_This_ ride can.

His eyelights, which had shrunk a little during the laptop removal, blow back out and then some the moment your clothed crotch takes a neat little perch on his dick.

Oh, hell yeah, that’s nice. You can feel yourself beginning to soak your underwear now that you have something to press against. Your clit throbs with the tease of friction.

“Like this?” you ask, innocently, because you’re kind of an asshole.

He laughs. “well, not exactly. but i do like this better,” he admits, hands curling back around your hips like they belong there. The current they give out is much stronger this time, sending little shocks to your system that make your cunt clench.

“Hmm,” you hum, sliding your hands from his shoulders, up his neck, his jawline. You cradle his face in your hands, glide your thumbs over his cheekbones. He closes his eyes and shivers, hands tightening around your waist. They get almost hot, cackling energy against your bare skin, and then recede back to a low-level warmth.

“i don’t know how you keep doing the right things, but i’m not gonna tell you to stop, uh, _ever_ , so there’s that,” he mutters, turning his head a little into your hands to nuzzle. You gaze at his face and grind down, just a little. Watching his eyes snap open, expression going slack, and feeling his hips twitch up mixed with the surge of magic from his touch has your cunt pulse and your clit throb.

“What do you like?” you ask, trying for conversational and almost getting there. The breathiness of your voice kind of undercuts it, which is more than alright since Sans seems to like it just fine. He pushes your hips down just a tad, and you go with the motion, wishing your cunt was bare so you could rub it on his dick in a way that doesn’t drive you bonkers with insufficient levels of pressure.

“heh, you really want to have the conversation right now?” he asks, hands snaking down to grab your ass. You never, ever protest a good ass-groping from a partner, but you find your mouth parting to complain before your brain catches up. It takes you a second to understand, but the electric current of his magic is completely gone, and you can only guess that it’s because you have pants on, a barrier between your skin and his bones.

Fucking jeans. You’ve never hated a piece of clothing before, but this is definitely close.

“I’m debating,” you admit, “on if that would be lucrative, yeah. Because on one hand, I’m ready to sit on your dick and ride you through this mattress,” you grind down harder and he sucks in a shaky breath, hips stuttering, “but on the other, I sort of want to see if I can make you cum in your pants. And I think talking about what you like might help me with that one.”

“keep talking like that and i just might,” he says, voice strained and face flushed.

“Could you eat me out?” you wonder, letting your thumb skim the ridges of what you could consider to be his lips. His eyes close again, his brow bone creasing, and he breathes in a deep, shaky breath.

“fuck. yeah, i could—” you graze your other hand across his collarbone, cutting him off on accident. You leave it alone for now, going back to holding onto his shoulder for support.

“Go on,” you urge, stopping the movement of your hips and the finger on his mouth.

He laughs, but the crease in his brow bone gets deeper. “uh, shit. i could make you a tongue, yeah... please keep going?”

He asks so nicely. Sweetly, even. It kindles a fire in your chest, like being lit aflame. He wants you bad enough to beg. Even if what he gets is meager humping through clothes. Something tells you he’d do anything for you, at least right this moment.

“Honey, you can have anything you want,” you say, grinding down on the solidness of his cock. Maybe later you can have that in you again. The thought makes you bite your lip.

He inhales sharply at the nickname, bucking into your covered pussy like he can’t help it, and you feel a triumphant buzz in your head, like a high. It goes straight to your clit. You love knowing what people get off to when you’re with them. Pushing buttons until they shake apart is your specialty. “Baby, look at me.”

He whines and opens his eyes, but only half way, hooded with the effort it takes him. His eyelights are huge and fuzzy with arousal, his breathing taking a dive into choppy territory. Eye contact seems to be a good thing to try, because you can feel his dick twitch through four layers of clothing.

“That’s so good, sweetie. Just like that, keep looking at me,” you groan, grinding harder. “Tell me how it feels.”

He shudders, hips stuttering, face flushing bluer, and you think you’re right on the money when it comes to praise, too. He’s perfect. Fuck, he’s so fucking perfect...

“’s good,” he says, so quiet you can barely hear. “fu—mmm. can you—” he takes a deep breath, something like nervousness flickering over his expression. He doesn’t finish his sentence.

“Anything. Anything you want,” you remind him, eager to fucking please. You want him to tell you. You _need_ him to tell you. He looks better than a five course meal right now. If he asked you to tapdance you’d probably at least give it an old college try.

“fuck, okay,” he says, but has to look away from you to say it. “can you, um, could you—couldyoupleasechokeme,” he rushes out, looking highly embarrassed.

You stare at him for a second.

Huh.

To be honest, you had not at all expected that. You’ve not had a partner into choking, and you would’ve been iffy if you had due to the possibility of them passing out, but then again Sans doesn’t particularly need air, does he?

You’ve always had a thing for people finding pleasure in what you do to them, even if you’re not into it yourself. Just because it’s not your personal preference—getting choked, to you, is not your fantasy no matter how you look at it—doesn’t mean you won’t do it to someone else if they want.

You think on it, taking in his nervous but hopeful expression, and your mind comes back with only rave reviews.

“Shit, okay,” you blurt, and then push his top half down to the bed. “Yes, I’ll do it.” He goes willingly, looking extremely surprised and turned on by either the agreement to actually go along with his kink or the rough handling, you can’t tell. Nothing in his face looks scared or confused.

“you will?” he asks, almost disbelieving, as if he needs double-clarification, which you can understand. Some of your own kinks can dabble in the risky zone, and any partner willing to help you fulfill them always gets asked at least twice if it’s seriously okay with them.

“Yeah, yes, absolutely. Will it hurt you? What’s your tap-out method?” you ask, trying really hard not to ruin the mood but needing some sort of ground rules to go by.

He just sort of stares at you from where he lays, with you on top of him, sitting on his dick. A smile grows on his face until it’s as wide as you’ve ever seen it, and he breathes, “how are you so perfect?” as if you’re some beautiful thing gifted to him from the gods or some shit. Your cunt clinches at the praise and you very nearly go for his waistband, wanting his dick immediately. But then it really sinks in, the way he’s looking at you. What he said.

It’s one thing to think it about someone else, as you already have about him, but he _said_ it to _you_.

Before you can spout any bullshit, he says, with genuine awe in his voice, “you’re so beautiful.”

Flustered for the first time in many years, you snort and cover your forehead. Your cheeks heat up to match his own, but it’s blood, not magic.

“oh,” he says, and lifts a hand to touch your cheek with the lightest touch in the world. It tingles with magic. “you like that?”

Oh, my god. It’s like he wants to kill you. You’re going to die.

“Tap-out method,” you say in lieu of an answer, because you think if you seriously try to consider an honest answer you might implode. 

He grins crookedly, like he has your number with that answer, which is absolutely correct. He definitely does. Fair’s fair, you guess, and you’d be a hypocrite if you don’t acknowledge it, but you hadn’t even known up until two seconds ago that you would ever react this way.

You stick your tongue out at him, and he laughs, which causes his dick to rub against your crotch. He grunts, cocky (heh) grin wiped off his face immediately.

“double tap on your thigh,” he tells you, which is good enough, and when you scoot up a little to be able to grind down and get your hands where you need them, his hips twitch and he winces, hastily adding, “i’m not gonna, heh, last much longer if you do. just, uhh, warning you?”

You grin down at him, slowly moving your hips in a circular motion. His head hits the mattress and he hisses, eyes snapping shut.

That just won’t do. Not today, at least. He keeps closing his eyes and looking away. You want to see the light in his eyes. They’re so expressive.

“Open your eyes and look at me,” you murmur, slowing down your grinding in a torcherous pace.

He moans and does what you ask, hooded eye sockets blinking open and fuzzy eyelights focusing on you. You speed up a little, and he groans, tilting his chin up just enough to get his point across. He wants your hand on his throat, and who are you to tell him no?

You lean in, bracing your non-dominant hand on his shoulder, and reach up to wrap your fingers loosely around his neck. Just from that faint touch, he moans loudly, from deep in his chest, and both his hips and his dick twitch in his shorts. Your pussy is soaked by now, but seeing his reaction coupled with the eye contact, your cunt throbs and you feel yourself getting even slicker.

You squeeze lightly. Something about this is making your brain only focus on his face, the way your hand feels around his bones. Your body is doing what it wants to do, which is to ride him like a fucking stallion, apparently, and his noises are getting louder and louder with tighter and tighter pressure.

You’re vaguely aware that his left hand is a fist in the sheets near where your legs lay, but his other reaches up to push you down on his cock from your lower back, and that electric feeling of his magic is so fucking intense, sending a shockwave of pleasure you don’t expect straight to your cunt. You gasp, hips stuttering, and tighten your grip.

“fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whines, breathing becoming labored, deep, fast, and it’s so fucking hot. He’s losing control, you can feel it in his magic, see it in his eyes, in his body.

“god, sweetheart, please, harder,” he begs you, and you can’t do anything but oblige.

What the fuck else can you do? Tell him no? You can’t. You literally can’t, not when he’s begging you to. Not when you squeeze harder and his magic pulses, as if his own pleasure spikes and he’s sharing it, he’s so close—

“Shit, baby, I can feel that,” you groan. “God, yeah, cum, honey. Please?” you want him to cum so bad. Your clit pulses with him, your breaths are coming quick and fast, making you feel dizzy.

“oh, fuck,” he says, breath hitching hard, which is ironic, his dick pushing up into your cunt through the layers of fabric, his other hand grasping your hip—and he comes.

It’s like a whip-crack of pleasure straight from his hands to your center, intense and almost explosively volatile. It’s not like any sort of orgasm you’ve ever had before, so much more intense, and you let go of his neck to collapse onto his chest, trying in vain to catch your breath.

You stay like that. Both of you are having a serious case of the aftershocks. His dick is non-existent now, gone wherever magic shlongs go when they’re MIA.

“did—did you just cum?” he blurts after a minute, disbelieving, petting your bare, sweaty back. The magic is still there, just faint, like static on a balloon. It’s nice.

“Yeah. That was _wild_. I can feel your magic when you touch me with your hands. Only works on my bare skin though,” you huff out.

“so you _can_ feel intent,” he says, and he sounds exceedingly pleased with that fact.

“Is that what it’s called? I would’ve named it the Orgasmic Zappies or some shit.”

He laughs, shaking his head.

You shift, flopping off of him to splay yourself out. He makes a little sound, like he’s trying to protest but doesn’t have the energy, and you reach over to pat him on the head. He lets out a tiny chuckle when you almost stick your fingers in his nose holes.

You’re damp, sweat rapidly cooling in the stale attic air, and you yearn for a shower. Maybe you should ask Sans if you could jse his, but you’re not so mentally gone to use a fucking three-in-one with the scent of Boar Balls or whatever terrible ‘manly’ scent they make these days. If he doesn’t have anything worth your time you’re going to just have to suffer.

“i think i’m laying on something,” Sans finally says, smiling up at the ceiling like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “it’s digging right into my spine.”

Wordlessly, you shove your hand underneath his back and feel around blindly. With clothes on, his body is solid. He’s not boney at all, some sort of barrier making him soft, pudgy. You thank his magic for being rad as hell, because this whole manuever would be so much worse if he was all pokey bone.

“a little to the left,” he advises you, not even bothering to shift his spine up to help you out. You roll your eyes.

You move to the left and find something smooth and rough at the same time. Bite marks.

“It’s the Go Pro,” you say, and then, just to be a little shit stain, you extract your hand but not the camera.

He lays there for a second, snorts, turns his head to you, and then says, “why, thank you. it feels so much better shanking my back now that i know what it is.”

  
  


SANS

*******

If you don’t ever want to fuck him again, even now with only two mutual orgasms under your belts, Sans knows he’s ruined.

He’s ruined and he can’t even be mad about it.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope y'all know I stayed up late finishing this and also carpal tunnel is a bitch. Everyone throw a homie the middle finger but at my wrist not at me specifically pls and thxs xoxo


End file.
